All the Precious Stolen Things
by WhyTheRobin
Summary: Alfred steps away from his drink for a minute and a half one autumn evening, and that's all it takes. Ivan steals Alfred away to snow and captivity. To ice and emptiness. To be his sunshine in an otherwise dreadful world. His only mistake was expecting Alfred to love him back. AU
1. Affable

All the Precious Stolen Things

Summary: Ivan steals Alfred away to snow and captivity. To ice and emptiness. To be his sunshine in an otherwise dreadful world. His only mistake was expecting Alfred to love him back.

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Chapter One: Affable

Great puffs of frigid air curled from his lips and rose to meet a burnt out streetlamp. His hands were dug into his pockets, clutching a wad of money like he was strangling it. He half expected Arthur to go run out chasing after him, looking ridiculous in his old man sweaters, screeching at him until his face turned purple. Not an apology, a continuation of a previous argument. That was normally what happened.

That didn't happen.

He had the sense to put on a jacket before heading out. The sleeves were too short, and the hem had been worn to threads. He didn't mean to grab his old bomber, it had been a reflex. He needed safety, warmth, and the smell of faded leather. His bomber jacket. It had enough room for his wallet, his cellphone, and a half-eaten chocolate bar.

The sign had faded out years ago, and the staff were negligent. Alfred Jones, who commanded attention at every waking moment, could barely be noticed by the bartenders unless he was carrying money. Arthur hated the place, so Alfred inexplicably felt drawn to it.

"Sixteen dollars," She held onto his cosmopolitan as she spoke.

Alfred paused his dismal money counting. He looked up.

He looked into her eyes and saw his reflection staring back at him. A lifeless stare that only service workers possessed.

Alfred chewed at his lower lip before sighing. He tried to dig out his wallet again. "Do you take card?"

She pulled back his drink with a roll of her eyes. "Machine's broken. There's an ATM outside by the Starbucks."

As strange as it sounds, he could feel the presence before he could hear it. Like thunder after lightening, the hair on Alfred's arms rose. "I can pay for the rest."

Alfred turned.

He smiled down at Alfred with three dollars in his hands. Crisp. "I insist,"

Before Alfred could say anything, the bartender snatched the bills from the stranger's hand and slid the pink drink over. She left to fend off another customer without another word. "She seemed nice," the accented man said with a frown.

The drink was practically overflowing, not that Alfred minded. He would take three more of these without any shame. He smacked his lips together and offered a smile. "I was a pretty awful customer." He said it with a little flourish. "Thanks though,"

Ivan had one of those faces that imprinted itself on one's memory without consent. A slightly hooked nose protruded on his features. On anyone else it would be off-putting, but he seemed to be the type that accepted such a feature and made it look interesting. Regal, almost.

"Would you like to sit with me?" He gestured behind him. It was almost a mechanical grace that he had. Like it had been practiced many times before, but never quite perfected. Alfred must have hesitated because Ivan tipped his head to the side with a closed-lip smile. "I make good company. You should know that I have five jokes, and none of them are funny."

A tongue darted out between Alfred's lips after he laughed. He takes another sip and nods. "You know that'd be really nice. I'm Alfred, by the way."

"Ivan." Ivan grinned before spinning and heading to his table. Alfred notices his coat, and a pale pink scarf stretching down the sides of his neck. He can't help but think Ivan must be a little overheated in this crowded dump. He avoided making eye-contact with any of the other patrons, yet somehow weaved around them effortlessly. It took thirteen steps to reach Ivan's table.

Ivan didn't meet Alfred's eyes when they sat down. They kept flickering over the bar, never settling. It made him seem shy in an endearing sort of way. Like he didn't know what to say now that they had introduced themselves. "So, Ivan, what do you do?"

"I'm a physician." He said.

"Oh, awesome." Alfred smiled then, and Ivan finally met his eyes. Violet, Alfred noted. The gaze makes Alfred's ears heat up. "That's really cool that you take care of people, I mean," He prods Ivan's arm, the one that's holding a little shot of vodka.

"I'm private practice, actually." Alfred waited for him to continue. Ivan shifted. "…It's a medical thing. That was not one of my jokes, I promise you."

"Really, because it was pretty fucking bad." He laughed. Ivan laughed, half a second behind him. Quieter.

It happened very smoothly, easily enough it would be mistaken for a blunder by anyone. Perhaps he had done this before. Practiced it. Ivan put his glass down too close to Alfred's, knocking into it and toppling it over. Alfred stood up in a second, and Ivan followed suit. "I am so sorry." Said Ivan.

"Nah man, its fine." There was some spilled cosmopolitan on his fingertips, sticky and sugary. He sucked his pinky. "I'll just get another one."

Ivan knitted his eyebrows. "No, I spilled it. I will buy it. You clean up the table. I will be right back,"

Alfred meant to protest, but Ivan was already at the bar. He thought maybe he should go up with him but decided against it. Instead, he collected a couple of napkins from the other tables to soak up the mess.

The tall man returned just as the table was dry. "Our friend was not happy to see us back so soon, Alfred." He said the name like an exotic dish, rolling his R's. "But I did come back with a little straw, just for you."

"Aw, how sweet," He cooed.

"Oh, it is my pleasure," Ivan sat down and held out his drink to Alfred. His head tilts and a grin devours his face, "Cheers?"

"Cheers," their glasses clinked, and Alfred took a sip.

At first, there was nothing. Alfred cleared his throat and shook his head in a way that reminded Ivan of a wet dog. He laughed out, "it's smooth, let me tell you that."

Ivan leaned forward, sipping his vodka tenderly. A small grin still worried his features. "So are you from here?"

"Nah, I moved here like…six months ago? Met some pretty cool people, but it's certainly a lot different than where I'm from. I might be moving back sooner than I anticipated. Here it's bigger, but…tighter." Ivan was nodding as if he were having a poem recited back to him. Alfred could feel himself rambling, stopping himself with another drink. Ivan had stopped looking around, all of his focus on Alfred. It made him feel important. "But you're a stranger here too, aren't you? Where's home for you?"

A complex expression comes and goes on Ivan's features. It disappears before Alfred can decipher it. "Russia." His voice was strained.

"I knew it! I dig your accent, though. It's really nice," Alfred looked down at Ivan's hands. No wedding band around his fingers. They were rougher than they looked, coiled tightly around a shot glass. At bit too tightly.

Ivan put down his glass with a little laugh that made Alfred smile. "I'm sorry, I'm just not used doing this sort of thing. I'm a little tense." There was a twinkle in his eyes that trapped Alfred there for a second. He shifted in his chair, eyes flickering and trying to get a read on Alfred. He settled on an uneven no-lip smile. "I'm…well, I suppose I should just go on and ask. Are you seeing anyone?"

There was something in the way Ivan spoke that drew Alfred to him. He knew what he was going to say, yet there was a practiced method to it. Maybe it was practiced, Alfred figured. Maybe this was how he picked up guys at crowded bars. Alfred wondered if he was being picked up.

"No, not really. I think I'm pretty broken up with." He scratched his nose. Arthur's screech to get out still rang in his ears. It was the last thing he actually yelled before Alfred grabbed his bomber from the banister. He tripped on the welcome mat on the way out.

Weird how he remembered that.

Ivan paused for a fraction of a second. His mouth curls into something of a grin around his shot glass, more like a cat finding the canary cage open. "So he broke up with you, then?"

"He broke up with me, I broke up with him. Details." Alfred waved it off and took another big drink. "Fuck, this is really salty. She must've _hated_ me." Alfred laughed. Ivan giggled.

"I don't think that's true at all,"

"This is fun,'' Alfred barely meant to say it. A tender smile crossed Ivan's face, and he looked down and away. Pale blond hair covered his eyes. Poor guy. He probably wasn't used to receiving compliments from a bar like this. Alfred thought it was cute. He poked him in the arm. "Hey, Russia sounds nice. Everyone wants to go there at least once in their life."

It takes a second, but Ivan looked up with an expression caught between wonderment and something darker. "We could go now."

The world suddenly became much too complicated for Alfred. His lips felt numb while time became wobbly and blurry.

A worrying smile is back on his face, sharpened by canines and glittering with enamel. Ivan downed the last of his shot and stood.

Alfred tried to stand too. Ivan caught his arm and threw it over his shoulder with a good-natured laugh made out of tin and copper. He even whispered something in Alfred's ear, too fast and too breathy to register. Alfred tried to respond, but all that came from his lips was a sound too mushy and gobbled to sound like anything at all.

Ivan moved too quickly, stealing Alfred out of the bar and toward a street with too many people. Alfred was hit with the scent of cigarettes and beer and piss. Air felt foreign against his skin. Alfred had never done any sort of acupuncture before, but it felt like tiny cold needles being stuck to him at once. Ivan never stopped moving until they reached a side street with no people. Alfred leaned against the side of a building, holding onto it and trying to make the world stop spinning. Alfred wanted time to slow down with him, but it instead betrayed him.

"I can't...Hey…" Alfred tried to stand upright, but his limbs aren't working right. His feet were like unrefined lead, clunky and graceless. He tried to bring his fingers to his face, but can't quite focus enough to fix his glasses. He smudges a lens with his forefinger and recoils. Ivan has his back turned to him, a section of the scarf draped over his back. Alfred reached out and tries to tug on it. It's soft.

Ivan turned around with a small carryon suitcase. He said something to Alfred. He had gloves on, now. Worn leather. Alfred struggled to not hear the sound of his heartbeat through his hands. It was making it very difficult to stay up.

Hands gathered around his shoulders and forced him to stand up straighter. Alfred tried his hardest to focus his eyes on the figure in front of him. Before he could get a good look his glasses were plucked away. He raised his hands to feel for them, but they were lowered by someone not Alfred.

Tall. Violet eyes. Pretty.

A placating voice whispered to him, but his lips moved too fast. Like wings on a hummingbird. Sounding like words spoken through a fan, drifting around him like a tune. He liked this voice. It reminded him of a lullaby. A mocking lullaby.

Black hair.

Not right.

Alfred reached up again with his hands and ran his fingers through the stands. Ivan stilled, and his tune stopped. The strands were rough and thick. Synthetic. For a while Alfred continued to feel the strands between his fingertips, musing them as he tried to form words on his cottony tongue. Alfred didn't like them.

Before he can rip the strands off, the man lowered Alfred's hands back to his side. Something attached to his head, something furry and itchy. Alfred didn't like that either, but the hands are too warm and rough to pull away from. They grip his wrists tightly, urgently. More words.

Alfred understood them.

First he took off his jacket. The acupuncture in his arms became more painful than strange with the loss, but he continued regardless. The bomber is traded for a button down shirt that is too complicated yet too simple to fit. Ivan buttoned him up with a few mummers. Alfred unbuckled his belt and let it be pulled off. His pants were off within seconds, a sudden fear roaring in his ears and blinding him. Alfred backed away only to be stopped by the gloved hands. New pants are forced on his legs and pulled up. They don't have a belt. A coat, not his bomber, is thrown over his shoulders. It was heavy, almost industrial.

He was led away from his comfortable alley with a jerk. His arms are looped through the other man, but he can't help but stumble across the uneven pavement. Ivan pulled him along regardless, and Alfred doesn't have the words or coordination to fend him off.

"You can sleep soon." The Russian pulled him somewhere dark and frightening before stopping. He was pulling the carryon beside him with his free arm. Though he was stopped, Alfred felt the ground moving away from him like a treadmill. A word is on the edge of Alfred's mouth, ready to bloom like a flower.

A cloth raised to Alfred's nose and mouth. Alfred meant to push it away, but only leaned his head back. Another hand corrected him, firmly grasping the back of his neck. Alfred shook his head.

He shook his head again, more violent. His lead feet shuffled backward. The tall man took a step forward, pressing against his nose. Ivan stands over him, only lit by the paleness of the autumn moon. Where Alfred was flailing, this new darkened figure was unflinching. Clinical. Alfred's eyelids grew heavy. They fluttered.

And then he was stolen.

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 **A/N:** **Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think or if I should continue with this. It would mean the world to me :)**


	2. Bulwark

All the Precious Stolen Things

Chapter Two: Bulwark

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The sun was peeking over the horizon when Alfred opened his eyes. It greeted him with pale buildings and a solitary cloud painted pink in the morning light. Spring had finally melted what remained of winter.

He would have enjoyed the view more if Arthur weren't so insistent about pulling up his underwear.

"You don't have to leave,"

Arthur looked over his shoulder, mumbling something that sounded mocking. He curled over Alfred and kissed his cheek, smelling like tea and mint. Alfred reached up and drew him down, humming something into his neck that might have been sweet if he were a sweet man. Trouble was, he wasn't.

Thankfully, Arthur ignored these words and pulled away with a smirk. He threw a shirt in Alfred's general direction before shouldering on one for himself. "Come on then, you're driving me to the airport,"

Alfred pulled the sheets off of him and arched his back, savoring every pop of his vertebra. Arthur hissed, throwing a pair of jeans and hitting him in the face. He laughed. Hearing Arthur laugh was always a cruel treat.

"Rude," was all Alfred could come up with.

"Speaking of rude!" Arthur sang with a cadence of someone who spent their entire youth mocking beautiful people. His fingers tapped on a box, pale pink and patronizing. "You didn't tell me you were cheating on me,"

He sat up. "I'm not,"

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur plucked a card between his forefinger and thumb. "I quote, 'To my Precious One, Alfred'" He flipped the card over and sniffed, "precious is a bit theatrical, don't you agree?"

"What?" He got up and slumped to the dresser, taking the card from Arthur's hand and scratching the ink. The letters were penned with precise and curly strokes. Calligraphy.

Arthur's sigh cut through his train of thought. "Spare me,"

"Hold up, I don't know who sent this. I'm being serious here,"

"Well I'm not," Arthur rolled his eyes, having lost all interest in this whole affair hours ago. He fitted a tie around his neck, black. "I assume it's from your father,"

Ah yes, Richard. It was the only name that made Alfred's upper lip curl back just from hearing it mentioned.

"You should open this one before you throw it out,"

Clearly, it had been opened already. Arthur did this with all mail after it had been established that Alfred couldn't be bothered. He momentarily paused before lifting the lid. What if it was something gross? It could have taxidermy in it, Dick loved to terrorize his son with stuffed creatures. It said it would make him into a man's man, whatever that meant. Or, what if he had decided that twins were too much trouble? Arthur could be a conspirator. An assassinator!

"Hey, are you going to kill me if I open this box?"

"I'm always complicating homicide, dear. Just not yours."

Alfred pulled the lid off and pulled his eyebrows together.

"Beautiful, yeah?"

"Expensive,"

Arthur snorted, but Alfred hadn't been joking. His mother took him to their jewelry stores when he was barely tall enough to see over the counters. He had is fingers fitted for diamonds before he was toilet-trained, and his eyes matched to gems when he was six. A watch, encrusted with diamonds, could skyrocket above an average person's paygrade. At that point, it was no longer a piece of jewelry. It was a power play.

However, the first clue was in the watch itself. He ran his thumb over the face of the clock and pursed his lips. There were no diamonds crusted around the edge. No, those were sapphires. They were far more beautiful, but less gaudy, therefore his father had no interest in such stones. Alfred preferred them in secret.

"I don't think this is from the family," Regardless, he found himself attaching the watch to his wrist. It certainly fit well. He checked the time to reset it but found it ticking away perfectly. He shrugged.

"Oh," Arthur fed his belt through the loops, "why wear it, then?"

Combing through the box, Alfred tried to find clues as to who this could be from. He could always take it to one of the stores and have it looked at. Just to see how much it ran for. He looked down at the watch again. At first it had just looked like a scratch, but there was definitely something purposeful about it. He brought it closer to his face and tried to get the sun to reflect it.

Love.

Alfred beamed.

"Maybe I have a secret admirer,"

X

Pain was too simple of a word.

Alfred woke up with vomit rising in his throat. He gagged and choked, chest heaving and eyes sealed shut. His whole body heaved and convulsed, utterly opposed to the idea of having a foreign substance lodged in his stomach for _one more second._ His mouth hung open, feeling of cotton and wool, catching fire to his breath and strangling it. In the end, Alfred didn't vomit.

He swallowed it.

He lurched onto his side with a sudden cough. He waited for it to pass, reaching up to pinch the space between his eyebrows. The day had just begun and Alfred was too tired to deal with it. There was something foul fogging the morning air. It filled his stomach with leaden dread, made him want to call in sick and order in Thai food.

"You'll experience some dizziness, dry mouth, nausea, and fatigue for the next couple of hours."

Alfred swung his eyes open and saw nothing. The very sight made vomit crawl in his throat again. His ears prickled with the sound of footsteps.

"Are you alright?" asked the voice. Not Arthur's. Not his family. A voice that hummed in his dreams and distorted in the waking world. It sharpened his eyesight.

Military boots filled his vision, commanding and laced. Alfred felt his eyes trail up like a distress flare, up and up until his neck craned, not stopping until he saw a face. A blond head looked down, backlit by a halo of artificial light. Two violet eyes bore into him with blunted sharpness. They should have looked beautiful. They didn't.

Alfred caught a drifting memory between his teeth and held it on his tongue. A name, barely remembered. Ivan.

It tasted rotten.

"Why?" Alfred ground out. His throat throbbed. Useless.

Ivan reached down and put two fingers directly under his jaw. The feeling made him want to spit, but instead he shivered. "Are you cold? I'll get you another blanket," he said. His voice brought the twin ideas of 'solitude' and 'melancholy' to his mind.

His fingertips lingered on Alfred's throat for too long, searing like a cattle brand. Ivan's face was too blurry, too confusing, too much of an illusion. The colors blurred together like a watercolor painting, leaving him dizzy. "Where?"

Shuffling across the floor, Ivan disappeared and reappeared with a blanket. The blanket was fluffed into the air to float down—white and thin—hardly a blanket at all. It reminded him of a corpse shroud. It may as well have been.

"We're home,"

Just like that, Alfred fainted.

X

He had to piss.

The thought came to him like a divine revelation, crashing his mind into consciousness.

In movies people never realized how much of a shit position they were in when they were kidnapped. They were always tied down, squirmy, and actors could never quite get fear to sharpen their eyes. Alfred didn't follow any of these tropes when his eyes snapped open. There was something rotten about Alfred Jones in that way. Try to open him up, he might resist.

Frustrating.

Pulling himself into a sitting position, he clenched one fist. All fingers responded. He clenched the other, one foot, the other, and sighed. All fingers and toes curled appropriately, albeit tenderly. He'd would take tender over severed any day.

Where was he?

Perhaps the question should have come sooner than it did. If he looked straight ahead, there was a doorway.

He tossed his legs over the side of the bed, wincing when they connected with the floor. He tested his weight on one leg and found it bearable. A thought wormed into his ear. It probably wasn't the best idea to strain his muscles so soon after waking up. Alfred shook his head, feeling the world tilt.

With a grunt and a shove he stood up. His legs wobbled as he took a step forward, cursing the world for muscle atrophy. The putrid smell of sweat rose to his nostrils. A twinge of optimism coursed through his veins when all of his senses returned to him. It was numbed by pain.

Something in this room was driving him crazy. There was a dresser to his right, impressive and wooden. A table, two chairs, and plastic vase of fake flowers. A wardrobe. A lamp and a clock. Bookshelves, but with more books thrown around the floor than inside. It was decorated to look like a room, but there was something missing to convince him.

Measuring every step carefully, Alfred made his way toward the door. His foot snagged on something, a book. _Les Miserables_. Alfred kicked the object to the side with a particularly foul curse.

His memory was still foggy. He heard voices and remembered snapshots with every blink. One blink and he was in a car, lips numb and arms hanging. Another blink, he was curled up next to someone as a seatbelt was pulled around him. Another, a smile with pointed canines. Another, having piece of chocolate forced in his mouth. It was liquid at the center.

He didn't have time to give into the fear that had begun chipping away at him. He reached the door and pulled at the knob. When it didn't budge, he tried leaning away from it. Into it. Away from it. Back and forth until he was huffing and puffing. Without really thinking, he slammed his hand against the door. Of course the door would be locked. Why wouldn't it be?

Alfred turned around and found another door to his right. Hobbling over, this door slid open without resistance. It led to the bathroom. A shower, a sink, a toilet, and a cracked mirror. Alfred saw splinters of himself and looked away immediately. The petal shaped bruise looked worse than it felt.

There was a click, and Alfred's head spun around. A man walked through, and that was when Alfred's knees gave out. He fell to the ground without sound, without a cry.

Refusing to be caught, he tried crawling backwards. The bathroom had a door. As long as there was a door between them, his chances of survival skyrocketed. Anything was better than staying in a room with his kidnapper.

Alfred squirmed back as far as he could manage when Ivan appeared in the doorway, a tower of man. Alfred opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out with a muffled croak. Without a word, the hulking psychopath leaned in and pulled Alfred up by the waist.

Before he could register what was happening, he was back in his bed. Abandoning the idea escape, Alfred focused on survival. He pulled his knees up to his chest and scooched as far away from Ivan as he possibly could.

"I know what you're thinking," he said with a sigh, "you want to escape because you're afraid I might kill you."

Another cry was torn from Alfred, sounding more animal than human.

Ivan held his hands up and tipped his head. "I have no weapons, and I am not interested in seeing you maimed. There is no reason to be scream."

Alfred felt a cold wave of fear coat his throat. He sank into the sheets.

"I'm glad you understand," said Ivan.

"People will look for me," said Alfred.

"Probably,"

"My parents are wealthy. They can pay whatever ransom you ask for," He hadn't noticed how clogged his throat was until he started speaking. He tried to clear it, only managing a cough.

"I know,"

"If you let me leave, I won't tell anyone about this!" Alfred offered, voice high.

Ivan turned to him, raised a mug to his lips, and blew on it.

"You may have noticed how this room looks strange, Alfred." There was that awful roll of his R's again, making him sound like a dessert. "You've probably noticed there are no windows in this room. If you wanted to escape, you'd have to know where you are of course. I can tell you exactly what lays outside this house, though. That much I can do."

Ivan never took his eyes off of Alfred, never turned his back on him. He leaned against the wall and stirred his drink with a metal spoon, producing soft clinks that deafened the silence. "There's nothing out there for you. No trees, no houses, and no people. Believe me, the silence will kill you before exposure does." A small laugh died on the tip of Ivan's tongue. He tapped his spoon on the side of the mug like it were a dinner bell. It rattled Alfred's teeth.

"I'm not drinking that."

"Who said it was for you?" He raised the mug to his lips and took a quiet sip. Alfred watched his Adam's apple bob. His accent had thickened, Alfred noted. In the bar it had been barely noticeable, but here it elongated his vowels and curled his words like flames on a piece of paper.

Alfred hadn't noticed his hands were shaking until he looked down at them. This was wrong. This was just a dream. Pretty soon he would wake up and Arthur would be making breakfast for him.

"Do you want something to eat?" Ivan placed the mug on a lonely table.

Visions of chopped up flesh churned in Alfred's mind.

Sounds of screaming filled his head. A chair was dragged across the room, grating against the linoleum. The Russian began to take up more of Alfred's field of vision, growing taller with each passing step. "Even if you're not hungry, I'm going to insist you eat something."

A beast dressed in a sweater and scarf approached him, military issued boots on his feet. His great, hulking, psychopathic kidnapper had a placating smile. Something meant to calm Alfred down before he stabbed him in the kidneys and scooped out his eyeballs.

"Don't you dare take another step forward," he hissed.

There was a flicker of something behind Ivan's eyes, but he didn't stop moving. Alfred lurched into a sitting position, icy sweat beading his forehead. A numb sort of heaviness pressed his chest, made him grimace. "I'm warning you!"

Ivan shook his head, smile gone. He stopped. "I already told you I'm not here to kill you."

"Like hell you aren't." He reached up and grabbed the clock from the dresser, ticking like a heartbeat in his palm. He held his arm back and paused for any movement on Ivan's part.

He paused, eyes flickering over's Alfred's face. Reading him like a textbook. His eyebrows drew together. "You're bleeding,"

Alfred looked down for half a second and Ivan yanked the clock out of his hand. He drew his fingers around Alfred's chin and tilted his face up. Ivan batted his arms away when Alfred reached up to claw him. He managed one good swipe across the cheek. A thin pink line marred his face.

From the way Ivan looked at him, his small victory shadowed into regret. His voice was low, eyes narrow. "Don't do that ever again,"

He let go and Alfred drew further into the sheets. Ivan rose, placing the clock back on the dresser. He angled it twice, once to face him, and the other time to face Alfred. "I never hurt you," he adjusted his scarf, "and yet you hurt me,"

With that he rose and walked to the door. Alfred felt a bubble of anger rise in his throat, but knew better than to say what was on his mind.

He paused and looked at Alfred, "I'll bring you down your dinner later when you've calmed down."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

Ivan shrugged. "Read, pace, think of escape. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that you're here with me now,"

A smile that was far too tender passed his face, glassing over his eyes. "And I don't think I can ever let you leave,"

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 **A/N: Alright! So, I could not for the life of me write this chapter. Something about it was cursed, I don't even know. I have** **the next chapter planned out, and I'm working on polishing it. It will be much better than this one, I promise you. Thank you guys so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites. It really means the world to me! It was so nice to receive feedback, honestly. Please, let me know how you all feel about this chapter as well. Thanks for reading!**


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